The Rags-To-Riches Wife. Metsy Hingle

had been wrong.

      Yet, she didn’t regret what had happened, Lily admitted. How could she when the result was that she was going to have a baby? Smoothing a hand over her stomach, she felt a flutter of excitement as she realized that in just under four months, she would be able to hold her baby in her arms. She wanted this child, had from the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant. After being alone all these years, she was finally going to have a family.

      You are loved, my baby. You are wanted. You will always be loved. You will always belong.

      Silently, she repeated the vows she had made to her unborn child the moment she had learned the baby was growing inside her. And as much as she already loved her child, she struggled once again with her decision to remain silent.

      Was she doing the right thing by not telling Jack he was going to be a father? she wondered. But how was she supposed to tell one of Eastwick’s wealthiest and most sought-after bachelors that the stranger he’d spent one night with was pregnant with his child? The answer eluded her—just as it had for nearly five months now.

      Or was she simply avoiding the answer rather than risk rejection? She could handle rejection, Lily told herself. But her baby…her baby was another story. She didn’t want her child, even at this stage in his or her life, to be unwanted.

      As though sensing her gaze, Jack turned and looked in her direction. He scanned the crowd of mourners as though searching for someone and then his eyes met hers. For the space of a heartbeat, she couldn’t move. She simply stared into those blue eyes. Suddenly his eyes darkened, narrowed, and she realized he had recognized her.

      “May her soul and the souls of all the faithfully departed rest in peace….”

      Lily didn’t wait for the minister to finish, she simply turned and fled.

      Jack Cartwright stared in disbelief. There she was—the mystery woman from the ball. He’d begun to think he’d dreamed that night, that there had been no beautiful redhead, that there had been no passionate hours spent in his hotel room, that there had been no woman with ghost-blue eyes and skin as soft as silk. But she hadn’t been a dream. She was real. And she was getting away.

      “Jack, where are you going?” his mother demanded in hushed tones as she clutched the sleeve of his jacket. “The reverend’s not finished the service.”

      Beneath the net veil of Sandra Cartwright’s hat, Jack noted the disapproval in his mother’s eyes. It couldn’t be helped, he told himself as he spied the redhead in the dark coat walking briskly toward the cemetery gates. “I’m sorry. I have to go. There’s someone I have to see.”

      “But, Jack—”

      Ignoring his mother’s protest and the questioning look his father cast his way, Jack began to maneuver his way toward the rear of the crowd. “Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me,” he repeated in a low voice as he shouldered his way past friends, business associates and acquaintances.

      “…and may perpetual light shine upon them.”

      Moments later, a chorus of “Amen” rang out and then the crowd began to surge forward while he continued in the opposite direction. “Sorry. Pardon me,” he said as he bumped elbows and dodged hat brims. After he’d finally made his way to the edge of the moving throng, he rushed down a grassy slope toward the cemetery’s entrance where she had exited. When he reached the wrought-iron gates at the entrance, he searched the street in both directions. But he was too late. She was gone, vanished—just as she had vanished from his bed that winter night while he had slept.

      Dammit.

      He jammed his fingers through his hair. She’d gotten away—again. And he still didn’t even know her name, let alone how to find her.

      “Jack? Jack Cartwright, is that you?”

      Jack recognized the husky purr of Delia Forrester behind him. Gritting his teeth, he turned to face Frank Forrester’s trophy wife. He didn’t like the woman, hadn’t liked her from the moment the seventy-year-old Frank had shown up at the Eastwick Country Club and introduced the statuesque blonde as his new bride. He considered himself broad-minded enough not to prejudge Delia because of the thirty-year age difference between her and Frank, Jack admitted. After all, he’d witnessed the success of Stuart and Vanessa Thorpe’s May-December marriage during the last years of Stuart’s life. Nor did he pay heed to the rumors about Delia spending Frank’s money as though it was water. What he did hold against Delia was the fact that the woman had come on to him—and she’d done it practically under her husband’s nose. He didn’t trust Delia and, for the life of him, he didn’t understand why Frank did. “Hello, Delia,” he said and cast another glance down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of his mystery woman again.

      “I thought that was you I saw leaving the service in such a hurry.” She looked down the street in the direction where his attention was focused. “Looking for someone?”

      “I thought I saw someone I knew and I was hoping I’d be able to catch her.”

      “What’s her name?” she asked and placed a hand on her hip, drawing attention to the way the shiny black all-weather coat had been cinched at the waist. He couldn’t help wondering how the woman walked in the killer heels she had on. She tossed her platinum-blond hair back in a way he suspected was supposed to draw his interest, and stared at him out of brown eyes that were dry and clear, not a bit of smudged mascara in sight. She licked her lips, making the blood-red lipstick glisten. “Maybe I know her.”

      Jack considered that for a moment and couldn’t help noting the marked contrasts between his mystery redhead and Delia. The chances of Delia knowing his mystery woman were slim to none. “I doubt it. She doesn’t move in your circles.”

      “Well, I’m sure she’ll be sorry to have missed you. I know I would.”

      Choosing to ignore the overture, Jack asked, “Where’s Frank?”

      She sighed. “He’s waiting in the car. You know how weak he’s been since his heart attack and since it looked like it might rain, I didn’t think it would be a good idea for him to be out in this damp air.”

      “How considerate of you.”

      “I was trying to be,” she said, a wounded look in her eyes.

      Regretting his sharp tone, Jack told himself he wasn’t being fair. Maybe he had misjudged the woman, he reasoned. After all, from all accounts Delia had seemed to pay considerable attention to Frank since his heart attack. “You were right to have Frank wait in the car. The damp air probably isn’t good for him.”

      “That’s what I told Frank. Unfortunately, being an invalid isn’t easy for him. It’s not easy for me either.” She lowered her gaze a moment, then looked back up at him. “Frank’s not the man he was before his heart attack. There’s so many things that he can’t do now.”

      “Then I guess he’s lucky to have you to help him,” Jack told her and decided he hadn’t misjudged Delia after all.

      “That’s what Frank says, too. And I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. But every now and then it feels so overwhelming,” she continued and took a step closer. “It makes me wish I had someone that I could lean on, someone who would take care of my needs for a change.”

      “Maybe you should get a nurse to help you with Frank,” Jack suggested, ignoring the obvious invitation. He took a step back. “I’m sure Frank’s doctor could recommend someone.”

      Temper flashed in Delia’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly Jack wondered if he’d imagined it. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly trust Frank’s care to anyone else—not after that close call he had. Why, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened and I lost my Frank.”

      “Somehow I think you’d manage. But hopefully you won’t have to because Frank will be with us for a long, long time.”

      “Of course he will,” she said. “But enough talk about Frank